


Above All, a logical being

by Cards_Slash



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 17:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: Bones uses his significant southern charm to woo Spock.  Spock is somewhat difficult to woo.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> repost from LJ, 2009

_Sometimes, it just doesn’t work out_.

Spock had first become accustomed to the phrase when Nyota used it to offer some manner of explanation as to why she felt that their relationship could not continue. He had been, prior to that point, under the obviously erroneous belief that their relationship was of good standing.

“I’m sorry,” she had said. There was a familiar wetness in her eyes as she said it, rigidness in her posture that betrayed her discomfort at what she was doing and she chewed at the corner of her lip in a way that was worrisome. He had learned that she did so when she did not wish to tell him the exact nature of his shortcoming as related to their emotional attachment. “Spock, it’s not you, it’s just—something I feel.”

Certainly, if she were terminating their relationship it was relevant to something he had done. He searched through their most recent interactions and found nothing out of the ordinary. Her actions had not given him any indication of her unhappiness or lack of satisfaction with their romantic arrangement and her thoughts—when they touched briefly—had been somewhat bittersweet and oddly longing but he had simply accepted her explanation of homesickness. He was familiar with the common ailment of humans and their need to return to things that were well known to them. When she had begun apologizing for her slip he had understood she thought he would have been unhappily reminded of his planet’s demise. He assured her that her apologies weren’t necessary.

“Sometimes,” Uhura said. “It just doesn’t work out.”

Spock was left with the unpleasant task of attempting to conceive what he was meant to say now. He could not say that he was unaffected by her statements as he felt a curious sort of disappointment, a niggling feeling of regret and yet—she was making some attempt at controlling her own emotions. He had no wish to make this more difficult for her.

“Spock,” she said again. She stepped closer to him, her hand pressed against his cheek. Her thoughts and emotions were spinning like tornados, whipping against his mind so violently that he felt his heart start to race—want, lingering desire and love but disappointment and regret, bittersweet for having been denied this long, the things that humans wanted, things he couldn’t give, things he was unwilling to give—didn’t want to be human, how could she be with someone who was disappointed in his own humanity? How could she—but she loved him and it wasn’t enough in the ways she needed, she needed more, she felt lonely with him sometimes and he knew and he asked her what he could do and she didn’t know. Didn’t know. 

When he wrapped his hand around her arm, above the skin where the shirt covered it and pushed her hand away, she understood. Her emotions were too strong, her thoughts were wild. A tear slid down her face as she pressed her lips together. “I,” strange how tight his throat felt. Perhaps some sort of emotional transference. “Am confident that you will find someone better suited to meeting your needs, Nyota.”

She kissed him, in her fashion, dry lips against his so briefly as she tried to pull her hand free to wrap around the back of his head but just that brief touch of lips was more than he wanted. She was so sad, it swept over him like a wave and left him uncomfortable. “It’s for the best,” she said and nodded. “You’ll see; it’s for the best.”

Spock nodded his agreement; he loosened his hold on her hand, stood in close proximity to her—no longer his lover—and tugged his shirt straight before turning and leaving. 

\--

“Who do you think broke it off?” Jim had asked when Uhura stopped having lunch with Spock. It wasn’t much to go on so far as break ups were concerned. Neither of them acted coldly toward the other—not anymore coldly than Spock ever acted toward anyone.

“Damn it, Jim,” Bones muttered. “I’m a doctor, not a gossip.”

Kirk had chewed on his chicken sandwich with the slow authority of a mind hard at work on all the wrong things. Slow and measured, he was working out all the facts in his head, churning them over until he came out with something of his liking. “Aren’t you even a little curious?”

“Stay away from her,” Bones shot back.

“Bones,” Jim said—aghast and appalled surely. “I’m amazed you think so highly of me.”

Bones arched an eyebrow at that statement. “If I thought highly of you, Jim, I’d tell you to stay away from Spock.” And with that he picked up his tray and ignored the gaping fish face he was getting from his Captain. “Eat your vegetables,” was his parting remark before he headed back to sickbay.

\--

Spock had long been acquainted with the peculiarities of human sexuality. He was, however, unprepared to discover Dr. McCoy’s somewhat surprising display of it. 

The Captain had demanded they engage in shore leave under the pretense of stress relief from having gone so many months without it. He felt that Spock, in particular, would benefit from stress relief so as to expedite his recovery following the termination of his relationship with Lt. Uhura. The Captain felt that seven months was too long to spend _moping around_ and while Spock had attempted to assure the Captain he was doing no such thing his struggle had proved futile. And despite the doctor’s continued objections, they had inevitably found themselves visiting a local bar. Once there the Captain had begun ordering several alcoholic drinks unfamiliar to him with the professed interest in ‘trying them out.’ McCoy had been satisfied with picking one and had disappeared shortly thereafter.

Spock did not indulge, as alcohol did nothing to reduce his stress and often left a strange and unpleasant taste in his mouth while noticeably changing the odor of his breath. He did, however, remain with the Captain as it was a very real possibility given his history that he would initiate a brawl. _For fun_ Spock believed was how he termed it. 

He was not disappointed, the Captain took several ill-aimed shots at a local man and was summarily defeated before Spock stepped in and ended things. The locals had been willing enough for him to remove the Captain and extraneous violence had been unnecessary even if he felt ever so slightly disappointed that they had no pressed for further combat. (He felt this lingering emotion was illogical and chose to believe that it was the Captain’s emotion seeping into his mind from where his hand was around Spock’s neck as he babbled drunkenly about fine legs and a real sweet piece of ass.)

“…not just farm animals,” the Captain said as they came to a stop outside of the bar. Spock kept an arm around him to hold him stable as he reached for his communicator. He had a thought as to the location of Dr. McCoy when the Captain let out a shrill whistle. “Alright!” he shouted. “Go Bones!”

Spock felt, afterward, that he should have known better to investigate the source of the Captain’s excitement. However, at the time, he looked down into the dimly lit alley near the bar to find Dr. McCoy leaning back against the wall with a local on his knees in front of him apparently engaged in oral sex. “That is a male,” he could not stop himself from observing.

The Captain just laughed. “Blow jobs a blow job, Spock. Mouth’s a mouth except when it’s not—understand?”

No. Not at all. He flipped open the communicator to inform the Enterprise they were more than ready to be beamed aboard.

\--

Spock, as it turned out, was allergic to Yalenberries which were a favorite on the planet Yalen. There was no way that any of them could have known Spock was allergic to a food he’d never been exposed to. (That’s how he explained it to Jim who had been annoyingly nervous and repentant.) Bones figured it was just fortunate that Spock had only been standing next to them rather than actually eating them.

“Fascinating,” was Spock’s estimation of the deep green rash that covered the greater portion of his right side and was steadily spreading across his chest and stomach. “The rate of the spread of the rash is—”

“You want to talk about it or you want me to fix it? Is it only on your chest?” And his arm, over his fingers and it looked like it was starting to swell now. The hives were ballooning up and his skin was tightening with that strange shiny sort of look to it. 

“Primarily,” Spock answered.

Primarily. Right. Bones loaded the hypospray. “Where else is it?” He didn’t need to be told, really. The only clothes Spock still had on were his pants, if Bones couldn’t see it now he could guess. He had to use the left side of Spock’s body to administer the antihistamine and a few vials later he finally found the right concentration of it to counteract severe half-Vulcan allergies.

Spock merely raised his eyebrow at him. “Do you usually base your prescriptions on guesswork, Doctor? Because I must admit that, if possible, my estimation of your skill will be negatively affected if this is the case.”

Bones flattened his lips and gave Spock the sort of look that would have sent Jim running. “You’re not all Vulcan and you’re not all human so we’ve got no idea how to treat you for anything—much less allergic reactions to foods we’ve never heard of. If you’ve got some insight about how I should treat you, I’d love to hear it.” He cocked an eyebrow up while he waited for the response.

For a moment, Spock was entirely still. Just breathing slowly and evenly as the swelling and discoloration started to recede. He slid off the bed to stand on his feet and put his arms behind his back. “I admit that I have none,” Spock said finally.

“You admit that I was right?” Bones demanded. 

“No, I merely admit that I have no insight to offer that would make me more comfortable in seeking your assistance in manners pertaining to my health.” Spock didn’t smirk, not with his mouth but his eyebrows and his dark eyes were something else entirely. He could smirk there, challenging, betraying—maybe—some sense of humor in their interactions. “However, as you are the only physician on duty at present, I have no other choice.”

“Here,” Bones shot back at him and handed him a set of gray sweats and a T-shirt, standard issue of sickbay. “Get those clothes off and we’ll send them to the laundry.”

“You wish me to change here?” Spock asked.

Sure, why not, there was a curtain and it had been a while since he saw a body as well kept as Spock’s anyway. “No,” he snapped. “But you’re not leaving here with those contaminated clothes. There’s a shower—get clean, put on the new clothes and then get out.”

Spock didn’t frown either but his eyes explained how ridiculous he felt the doctor was, even if it made some logical sense. Bones just waited until he was obeyed and grinned as he went off to find the next unlucky soul. 

\--

Jim, perhaps, knew before he did. However Spock was sure that he knew prior to Dr. McCoy coming into the personal awareness. 

“So,” Jim—they were off duty and he had been ordered not to refer to the Captain as Captain during such times as their chess games—had drawled. “What’s with you and Bones lately anyway?” At the time he had considered the question to be nothing more than the usual distracting banter Jim often engaged in with the intent of preventing him from concentrating fully on the match.

“I am unclear as to the nature of your inquiry,” Spock answered.

“Ah,” Jim said and smiled at him strangely. “Don’t worry about it then.”

Shortly following the puzzling interaction, he found himself standing next to the barstool while Dr. McCoy somberly sipped whiskey from his glass and said nothing much at all. The Captain had asked Spock to wait with Dr. McCoy until he was able to arrive himself. 

The silence was not, as it usually was, a comfortable itch. It was pronounced and illogical in that left him feeling distinctly uneasy. 

“Why don’t you sit down?” McCoy demanded. “Stop standing around like that, you make me nervous—have a drink.”

“Alcohol has no inebriating effect on me, doctor.” He did, however, sit. And by the time he had placed his elbows against the edge of the bar McCoy was accepting the drink from the bar tender and setting it down roughly on the bar in front of him. “I also do not find the taste appealing.”

“It’s not about the taste,” McCoy informed him. He was considerably inebriated at the time, that was perhaps why he turned and put his hand across the back of Spock’s neck. The contact was cool, McCoy’s mind was half coherent and entirely too loose to be understood clearly though such a cursory contact. “It’s not about getting drunk. It’s about—” McCoy gestured with one hand while his mind ran through images, one after another. They were colored incorrectly and they swam in and out of bitter thoughts that echoed over with indecipherable shouts and ended almost painfully with the tap of a stylus against a PADD. What Spock could see was the face of a child as it aged from birth, and the feeling of sorrow and regret. “I don’t know what it’s about—I can’t think of anything you’d understand.”

“I believe,” Spock said. “I understand.” For no logical reason he found himself sitting next to Dr. McCoy as he finished his drink and Spock’s and listened as his thoughts became words and he talked of the things that were far from him. It was a peculiar touch of emotion in his voice as he laid his head down on the table.

“It’s my fault too,” McCoy said finally. “I wasn’t what she wanted; it wasn’t her fault it was just—sometimes it doesn’t work. I just never wanted Joanna—never wanted her to get caught in it.” 

It was only logical that he assist the doctor back to his quarters and make sure he found his way to his own bed. When McCoy caught his hand as Spock turned to leave again his emotions were like eddies in the water but plain enough that Spock could easily discern them. Gratitude and a burgeoning sexual attraction.

“You’re not so bad,” was cut in half by a yawn. “For a pointy-eared bastard.”

Spock pulled his hand free and left the doctor to sleep. The next day the Captain asked him question after question about the things that McCoy had said and expressed sorrow and repentance at not being there before he finally explained that it had been Joanna’s birthday. Spock assured him that Dr. McCoy was well and the Captain had that strange smile again.

\--

“So,” Jim drawled as he flopped back into Bones’ chair to put his boots up on Bones’ desk. “You want Spock, huh? Guess what they say about opposites is true, huh?”

Bones shoved Kirk’s feet off the desk first. “Do you have an actual reason for interrupting me while I’m working or is this really all you’re here for?”

Jim just shrugged. “I’m just curious, naturally. Like a cat.” If his eyes were a little greener and a little less blue he might have looked like a cat then, licking his chops after he ate the canary and drank the cream. 

“Now that you’re here,” Bones said. “It reminds me that you’re overdue for your annual physical.”

“I can’t stay,” Jim said quickly. “Official ship business—Captain stuff, really important. Besides, what would Spock think if he found out you wanted to see me without my clothes?” And the bastard skipped out of sickbay with a grin and a wave. 

“Official business my ass,” Bones grumbled. 

Bones was alright with his attraction to Spock—it was based firmly on the fact that Spock was, despite his character flaws, a very attractive man who was quite literally several degrees hotter than the average human. It made sense, even if it wasn’t exactly logical, to be attracted to someone that was good looking and intelligent. He wasn’t alright with Jim knowing because the man couldn’t be trusted to keep his nose out of it and damn if Bones knew how he was going to convince Spock to his way of thinking.

Try as he might he couldn’t think of a God-damned logical reason they should have sex. (If he were Jim he might have tried something like _hey baby, wanna experiment?_ and if he were Jim it might even have worked.) Spock didn’t seem like the sort that would be swayed by pick up lines, might not even understand them. Not the human ones and Bones couldn’t figure out what the hell a Vulcan would use as a pickup line. If they even had them, that was. 

“Damn,” he said to no one in particular. 

\--

Doctor McCoy’s lust was somewhat distracting. Spock had, on a number of occasions, been in the company of both men and women of various planetary origins that were noticeably and quite loudly advertising their desire to mate with him. Typically their attempts to court or seduce him involved touching which immediately alerted him to their attentions and most often he found that by simply ignoring them they would become disheartened and move on. On rare occasions it had become necessary to verbally assert that he was not—as humans said—interested.

But McCoy’s lust was a low hum in the very background of his thoughts and it had yet to creep up into his actions. He had yet to start stroking the back of Spock’s hands in a way that was forward and crude; he did not attempt to woo him through the traditional methods of chocolates and inappropriate comments. Until he betrayed his intentions, Spock could not refuse him. And until Spock could refuse his attentions he was left with the distracting knowledge that a. the doctor was lusting for his body and b. the Captain found this to be highly amusing. 

It made their every interaction a carefully balanced act of ignoring the obvious while pointedly not encouraging further attachment.

(“These smell like peaches,” the doctor had announced on a recent away mission as they paused next to a large bush of fruit. 

“Bones you know what they said about eating the food down here,” the Captain said back. He had, of course, already picked one off the bush and was sniffing it carefully. Spock was quite sure that they had all eaten together at their customary breakfast table. “They smell sweeter than peaches.”

They engaged in a small and somewhat pointless argument about the smell of peaches and who would know the smell better. The Captain settled it by merely biting into the fruit and licking his lips slowly in a manner meant to incite McCoy to arousal or anger. After assuring that the Captain wasn’t going to die, the Doctor took a bite of his own fruit, held it in his mouth for a matter of seconds and then turned his head to spit it out.

“That’s not a peach,” he announced and dropped the fruit to the side.

“It is so,” the Captain countered, perhaps only to argue. “Spock have you ever had a peach?”

“I have not,” Spock had said. “I do not consider this to be a particularly troubling deficit in my diet.”

McCoy had scoffed, scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes had, as usual, lingered a little too long on Spock’s face and then his shoulder before he shook his head. “That’s because you don’t know what you’re missing.”)

When McCoy found him in the cafeteria and handed him a cool, slightly fuzzy fruit and nodded at it like it bore some great importance, Spock surmised that the formal courtship had now begun. It would, perhaps, be in their best interest to inform the doctor now that he did not reciprocate the sexual attraction. Furthermore, even if he had, he did not wish to engage in any further romantic entanglements with humans that would end as awkwardly as his previous attempt had. Lt. Uhura was professional but he could still feel the lingering bits of familiarity and regret whenever they came into contact. Humans simply did not forget or adapt as well as other creatures.

“That’s a peach; after you eat it tell me your diet wasn’t experiencing a deficit before.” An arched eyebrow challenged him and Spock looked down at the fruit now in his hand. “It’s a peach,” McCoy went on, exasperated as he usually was. “You bite it.”

In some cultures, accepting food was seen as a sign of returned affection. Spock carefully deliberated while they gained the attention of several crew members before rolling the fruit over in his hand and looking at the doctor. “Thank you,” he said because it was customary. “I will be sure to do so at a later time. As I have already eaten I am not in need of further nourishment.”

McCoy insulted him as he usually did and walked away still shaking his head over the nature of aliens. 

The peach sat on a shelf in his quarters while he meditated that night—a distraction, a challenge from an oddly passionate human that he could not shake. Perhaps he was simply surrounded by too many of them and their constant influence was causing his control to slip. It seemed easiest to remove the temptation and he moved to do so but found himself reluctant to dispose of the fruit.

He rinsed it carefully in the small sink and after some further deliberation finally took a bite of it. It was delicious—a product of the replicator, unfortunately, but still quite pleasing. He ate it slowly to enjoy it and to memorize the feel and taste of it. When it was done he disposed of the core and washed his face and hands.

Dr. McCoy answered his door dressed in a pair of Starfleet issued pajama pants, blinking into the light of the corridor. His hair was in disarray, his cheeks were shadowed by the unshaven growth of a beard and his voice when he demanded: “What? Something happen? Is Jim alright?” was gruff and thickly accented.

“The Captain is fine,” he assured him. “I only wished to inform you that I have eaten the peach and find that while it was of a pleasing taste and texture, it has not profoundly impacted my opinion that my diet was anything but sufficient prior to the experience.”

McCoy leaned his shoulder against the door, yawned loudly with one of his hips out in a manner that some would have considered provocative and he shook his head. “That couldn’t have waited until tomorrow? We humans like to sleep, Spock. I’m glad you liked the peach—next time wait until I’m awake to tell me.”

Spock nodded. “Of course, Doctor.” 

And fascinating, as most humans engaged in a courtship were naturally appreciative of the attentions of their prospective partner. Dr. McCoy just mumbled something under his breath as he rolled off the doorway back inside and let the doors close behind him with no further words of encouragement or attempted seduction.

\--

“I think,” Jim informed him as he sat straight on the bed and very still so they could finish this annual torture session as quickly as possible. “You’re going about it all the wrong way.” Which was just about the stupidest thing a man dressed in a flimsy disposable gown could say to his doctor. “Seducing Spock, that is.”

Bones set the tricorder down and picked up his gloves. Jim watched him pull them on and got a little paler. “And how would you do it? Off the bed.”

“Bones, come on, I’m healthy. I check every day. Do we have to do this?” He slid down to his feet anyway, the gown crinkled and shifted as he moved. “No rashes, no spots, no third arms or tentacles or tails. I’m healthy as a horse.”

“Take the gown off,” Bones returned. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Jim rolled his eyes and pushed the gown down. Mumbled something about having to put it on to start with if he was just going to have to take it off again. But machines were only so good and nothing took the place of his own eyes and hands. “You want me to tell you how I’d seduced Spock while I’m naked and at your mercy? Classy Bones. How about starting there?”

“You want me to abuse my power as his physician just so I can see him naked? I’ve seen him naked.” More than once in the past few years. “Arms up.” He checked Jim’s skin starting behind his ears and working down, around, back up.

“Why not?” Jim asked.

Bones could bother to explain it to Kirk, maybe. Thought that when you had eyes that blue, lips that damn distracting and that strange beaten puppy charisma that you didn’t need to be particularly thoughtful or classy about how you propositioned your bedmates. Hell, half the time Jim just had to show up and people were slobbering on themselves to get in his pants. “Because when I get around to asking him, I want him to say yes.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “You about done staring at my ass back there?”

“Keep talking I’ll have Nurse Chapel come in here and give you a prostate exam.”

Jim shivered and laughed. “Now you’re talking, Bones. Try some of that on Spock.” He was smart enough to run for it when he had the chance and grabbed his clothes off the bed to sprint for the nearest bathroom and ducked inside to get dressed. 

\--

It was common knowledge that he spent time on the observation deck. Therefore, when Dr. McCoy showed up after his shift and came to stand next to him without touching, Spock could only assume that it was a traditional human attempt at contriving a coincidence. 

“Doctor,” he offered as a greeting.

“Hi Spock,” McCoy returned. He did not attempt to initiate contact with him. It was—confusing, perhaps vaguely annoying—that while his intentions were perfectly clear his actions did not mirror them. Humans related the greater of portion of their emotions through touch—anger, arousal, lust, affection, love. 

“Doctor,” he said. Perhaps if he were to offer indication that he was aware of McCoy’s intentions they could cease to mutually pretend to be ignorant of the subject. “Is it customary where you were raised to…” How did he want to phrase this exactly. “Engage in a subversive and elongated courtship?”

The shock was evident almost immediately. McCoy seemed to curse at it until it faded into something that approximated imitated comfort at the question. He looked ahead of him instead of at Spock directly and then he opened his mouth and thought again. At last he issued a noise that was simultaneously a cough and a laugh. “Damn it Spock, do you have to do that _all the time_? Not everything is about what’s customary, sometimes it’s got nothing to do with customary anything—for that matter where I come from we don’t exactly have a lot of pointy eared green blooded _Vulcans_.”

“Of course you would not, Doctor.”

“And, I’m not _courting_ you.”

“Doctor,” Spock said.

“Stop calling me that,” McCoy snapped. “I’ve got a name; I call you by your name.”

Spock was at a loss. He remained quiet for a moment while he considered this. “You are aware,” because he was not fully familiar with the etiquette involved in referring to the situation and decided calling McCoy nothing was preferable to giving him false hope. “That as a Vulcan I am naturally telepathic through contact. And that we have, on a number of occasions, touched. Through this I was able to discern your physical attraction toward me. I have been waiting, of some time, for you to—as the Captain has put it—make your move. While I have determined that you are attempting some level of courtship I have presumed to be reminiscent of your traditional native rituals, I am confused as to why you have not chosen a more direct route.”

The noise came again, McCoy straightened up. “I’ve done the direct route, Spock. It doesn’t work out.”

“I am confused,” Spock assured him.

“I’m sure you are,” McCoy said. “Look—”

“You are sexually attracted to me?” And McCoy stared him back into the face, as brash and unwavering as the Captain himself, unashamed and unafraid in that moment. It was strange, a trait that many humans did not share when facing him at the inevitable conclusion of their attempts to seduce him. “I assume you wish this sexual attraction to be reciprocated in such a fashion that we would engage in sexual intercourse?” 

“Yes,” McCoy said.

“Then I am uncertain as to why the direct course would not have been more expedient? Surely an elongated courtship is not required for—as the Captain would say—a one night stand.”

McCoy scoffed this time, looked away finally and then back again. “You’re the logical one, Spock. You tell me why.” 

Many humans would have, by this point, seized upon the chance to offer themselves for his sexual pleasure or strategically retreated when given the excuse. Spock did not like the strange feeling in his limbs as he met McCoy’s stare and thought over his own calculations and assumptions again. He had based the outcome of this situation on his knowledge of previous situations of similar parameters. While he had attempted to factor in the doctor’s aggravating unpredictability as regarding the matters of seduction and courtship he had not reached this as a possible outcome. 

“The only logical conclusion I can reach is that you are not interested in a single instance.”

And the doctor smiled at him. “Not bad, Spock—for a walking computer.” It could have been simply a trick of the light that McCoy seemed to be smiling at him with some manner of faint amusement. He turned as if he were intending on leaving, stopped and turned back to face him. “And I haven’t been courting you.”

It sounded suspiciously like a threat. 

“Yet,” confirmed that it was, in fact, a threat.

Spock was left staring at the place where the Doctor had been and the uneasy feeling of excitement he could not explain. Perhaps he could consider this to be a challenge of his control, resisting the doctor’s human advances could prove to be excellent practice.


	2. Chapter 2

Kirk had always considered himself a master of observation. Factor in that he’d known Bones for a good five years or so and Spock for the past two, he had known long before they did when their friendly bantering had evolved into some kind of verbal foreplay. (It had happened almost a year after Uhura and Spock had parted ways, actually. Vulcans apparently did not handle rejection well.) 

Spock was cautious because—Kirk hadn’t figured out why. His best guess had something to do with Uhura and how much of Spock’s attention she had commanded while they were together and how long it had taken Spock to get over her. That or the fact that Bones was outwardly hostile and unlikeable and only occasionally friendly; the man was a master of mixed signals.

Bones, he figured, was being hesitant because he’d never been terribly serious about another man before. So far as Kirk knew they were largely relegated to the category of _quick fucks_ and were few and far between. And so far as he knew, Bones didn’t exactly want a quick fuck with Spock which was all for the better because Spock just wasn’t the type to believe in such a thing. But, any relationship extending beyond the length of time it took to get off and get out was a still a scary and unwanted prospect for Bones. Which left them at a standstill.

Except the thing with the peach, and the way Bones looked at Spock and the overwhelming amount of thought Spock put into figuring out Bones the two of them hadn’t done a damn thing. It had become something like watching grass grow waiting for the two of them to figure it out.

The whole bridge crew knew—Sulu and Chekov had a friendly wager he chose not to acknowledge regarding whether or not the tension between Bones and Spock would be resolved through sex or violence. Sulu insisted on violence and Chekov seemed to hold a romantic view that they were really deeply in love. Uhura watched it all with a hawk like intensity but kept her distance from it. (Kirk thought she was a better woman than he could ever have been.) 

The staff in the medical bay knew and was known to make remarks about how Spock must have been wearing his tight shirt that day because Bones was in a particularly surly mood. (Kirk took note of this and discovered that they were right, the tighter Spock’s uniform shirt was on any given day the meaner Bones was.)

Engineering knew because Spock would conduct random (and predictable) checks and apparently was surprisingly lenient on any day that he had been previously been seen arguing with Bones. (Which had Scotty and Keenser spouting interesting theories regarding Vulcans and their definition of oral sex.) 

Everyone knew. But Kirk had known first. And he knew the instant Bones decided to put an end to the standstill and do something about it. He had, perhaps, an unfair advantage in that Bones had shown up in his quarters late into the evening and flat out demanded that Kirk fold time and space and deliver him fresh peaches from earth as of yesterday.

Bones was in love, Kirk could forgive him. (Once.)

It started small. Spock was seen in the observation room toying with some manner of computerized logic puzzle with a faintly annoyed arch to his eyebrows. Bones had been spotted whistling in sickbay as he passed out hyposprays.

Spock had puzzled his way through accepting a compliment that Bones chose to give him in front of the entire bridge crew. ( _You seem especially well groomed today, Commander_ had to have been Bones version of sarcasm because if it were an honest compliment it wasn’t so much a wonder why he’d ended up divorced anymore. Spock had cocked his head to one side, noted their audience and floundered for precisely five seconds longer than he ever had before. _My appearance is no different than it usually is, doctor._ And Bones had just shrugged and smiled and left.)

On a mission, in a society with doors on hinges, Bones held the door open for Spock on eleven separate occasions. Kirk only knew because Spock had counted and reported back to him late into the evening after they finally managed to save their own asses without interfering with the development of an alien culture (definitely Kirk’s least favorite rule). “Captain,” Spock had said in a confidential tone. “Dr. McCoy seems to be under the assumption that by treating me as if I were incapable I will find him somehow more attractive. I am uncertain as to how to inform him that this is not the case.”

Kirk had yawned and nodded and offered some very wise advice he did not remember the next morning. Spock, however, must have taken it to heart because shortly following that Bones had tripped over a poorly placed foot in the cafeteria and almost fallen. Spock had—in a dashingly chivalrous manner—picked him up and carried him to sickbay despite being called every curse word Kirk had heard.

When Bones showed up in his quarters that evening livid and shouting and complaining about exactly the same thing Spock had been in there for, Kirk threw himself face first on the bed and offered reassurances that Spock was clearly a bastard until Bones took the hint and left him alone.

The next morning Spock was caught very nearly smiling. 

He finally got the peaches from a ship that had picked them up from another ship that had been in warp and Bones had been nice enough to thank him. Kirk hacked into the cameras on the observation deck under no kind of pretense and watched the sickening sweetness that was Bones giving Spock his very first organically grown Georgia peach.

“Well?” Bones had all but barked.

“It is,” Spock seemed reluctant to say. “Quite delicious.”

They both seemed satisfied with themselves. Kirk sat there waiting for them to start making out with one another long after they’d gone their separate ways. 

The other things were small, harder to notice. How Bones always made sure Spock had a seat—so he could complain about Vulcan diets and logic and whatever else Bones felt like riling Spock up about. Spock, for his part, went out of his way to make sure he had the last word of any conversation perhaps just so he could see what new volume Bones could reach.

And then, of course, there was the stuffed hedgehog that appeared at Spock’s station with a green ribbon around its neck. Kirk had noticed it when he walked onto the bridge and noticed how Chekov and Sulu were in a heated debate regarding their bet. Uhura was eying the toy with some carefully placid curiosity. 

Scotty showed up on the bridge, by chance of course, with the excellent excuse of needing to ask a pressing question. 

“Of course,” Kirk said as he sat in his chair and gave Scotty his full attention. Only Scotty didn’t have to try to think up something to say because the doors to the bridge whooshed open and Spock stepped out with his arms behind his back as usual. 

He noted the unusual level of concentration his entrance brought and nodded as he said. “Good morning.” Everyone, of course, said it back (Chekov very nearly squeaked). Spock moved slowly, watching them out of the corner of his eye as they turned their heads (or like Kirk, in their chairs) to watch him work his way to his own station.

His back was to them but a careful observer could see how his shoulders went rigid and tight and his head ever so slightly cocked to the right. Scotty was all but leaning across the Captain’s chair to see better by the time Spock finally reached down to pick the small stuffed hedgehog up off his station. He turned it over once, inspected the ribbon and then set it back down out of his way and took a seat.

“Captain,” Spock said as he turned to face them. “I would inform you that engineering has reported a strange reading but I see that Mr. Scott is here and must have already made you aware of the situation.” 

Trust a Vulcan to act businesslike with a sickeningly cute hedgehog perched on his console. 

“Captain,” Scotty started and launched into that very explanation. 

Long after they’d discovered the problem that was plaguing the engines and Scotty and Spock (and Chekov) had resolved it, Kirk found himself sliding into his chair in front of the console in his room and going through the increasingly familiar task of hacking the observation deck cameras. The hedgehog had sat at Spock’s station throughout his shift only to disappear at the end. Half of the witnesses swore they saw Spock with it and the other half had sworn that Bones had taken it.

The two of them met up on the observation deck where Spock was holding the hedgehog. “Doctor, you do realize that that is completely without logic.”

“Why?” Bones asked. He had that particularly infuriating grin. “I saw it and I thought of you, it's soft and I thought you might like it.”

Kirk laughed, quietly, and leaned in closer so he could squint at the screen because maybe if he looked hard enough he could see the smoke rising from Spock’s ears as his brain made some attempt to compute such a thing.

“Doctor,” he said again. “That is _completely_ illogical.” Now Spock was repeating himself. “As I am neither a creature native to a wooded area nor do I have large spines protruding from the majority of my body I fail to see in what manner I could resemble this,” and Spock thrust the hedgehog toward Bones. “Toy. Furthermore I fail to understand why you would make such an assumption that I would enjoy it.”

And then Bones was going to kiss him. He had to, Spock was right there and clearly confused, beyond his ability to understand illogical and irrational humans and their grand gestures. He was right _there_ and it would be so easy. Bones was going to do it. 

Bones just smiled. “You’re welcome, Spock.”

“I did not thank you,” Spock shot back. “I do not understand; I would appreciate an explanation.”

And now he’d kiss him. Spock was getting flustered now—it would be half violent and half sweet. Right now.

Bones just shrugged. “There are some things that logic can’t explain.”

Spock let his arm fall down to his side; hand tight around the fuzzy little toy as he stared. “I have no desire for things that are illogical, doctor.” Then he turned and left. Bones smirked at him after he was gone and looked damn pleased with himself.

Over what, Kirk couldn’t guess. But he got to sit on his bed and listen to Spock while he paced back and forth and attempted to work out a thousand variations as to how he could possible resemble the toy in his hand. The word illogical was used so many times Kirk had lost count after the seventy second time. 

“Jim,” Spock cut in after a while. “I do not reciprocate the doctor’s affection.”

Kirk snorted at that. “Right, Spock. Of course you don’t.”

“If I were to agree to engage in sexual intercourse with him do you think he would be suitably satisfied and allow this matter to drop?” Spock asked.

Now that was not a good idea. Kirk stood up, ran his tongue across his lips just to give himself time to think that one over. “I think that would be a very bad idea, Spock,” he said carefully.

Spock stared at the hedgehog again and nodded his head. “Of course. I believe I will return to my quarters and meditate on this most troubling problem. Thank you, Jim.” Then he left.

Something went wrong that night, Spock showed up for his shift on the bridge as closed off as he had been when Uhura left him and Bones had sent Chapel—who was never affected by the good doctor’s moods—storming out of sickbay in a tearful rage.

\--

“I believe,” Spock announced after Bones had let him into his quarters sometime after two in the morning. “We should engage in sexual intercourse. I believe that if we do so you will be satisfied and we may return to our previous relationship based on mutual respect for our respective specialties.”

It was late; Bones was half asleep, half dressed and half listening. He blinked into the light and worked backward through what Spock had just proposed while the man himself stood there at attention and still in uniform. “You want,” he repeated. “To fuck because you think if we do everything will be like it was?”

“In simple terms,” Spock agreed. “I have observed similar behavior from humans in the past: you included. Once your sexual desire is sated the extraneous emotional attachment you feel as a side effect of your lust will fade.”

Bones nodded, thought about it very carefully, and then cleared his throat. “Get the hell out of my quarters, Commander.” In a perfect world, or at least the world he had grown up in, there were still doors to slam on occasions like this. He preferred them—thought they were more dramatic. Doors to slam and walls to punch. He’d done plenty of that with Jocelyn at the end. Never a particularly soft and peaceful man, she had been just as full of fury as he was. They clashed on the best of days but she hadn’t said anything like _that_ to him, what Spock had the gall to stand there and say. Bones didn’t look at him; the floor was more interesting and more likeable. But he could see Spock’s boots hesitate and the turn fluidly and leave.

When Jim arrived in his office the next morning with that regretful look on his face Bones just leaned back in his seat and spread his arms and waited to be told what punishment he deserved for sending his entire staff running with their tails between his legs.

“You giving up already?” Kirk asked.

What was the point in fighting to be with someone that deemed you silly, illogical and incompetent but was fully willing to offer their body to you under the pretense of a peaceful working relationship? Bones dropped his hands down on the arms of his chair and shrugged.

“That bastard programmed the Kobayashi Maru, Bones.” This was clearly profound. “You fail a few times and then you realize the only way to win is to—change the parameters.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” Bones demanded. “I’m a doctor not a God damn genius delinquent.”

“Well I don’t want Spock and you do, so start thinking like one.” And Kirk frowned at him. “And apologize to your staff or I’ll have to take you off duty for making all of them simultaneously lodge serious complaints against you.”

“Fine,” he snarled. 

Kirk seemed to understand that he should leave then.

\--

“Spock,” was not the doctor coming up behind him on the observation deck. Uhura’s footsteps were much softer and her voice had the familiar quality of hesitancy. Even this long after they were still uncertain of where their boundaries lay. 

“Lt. Uhura,” he said back. 

She touched the back of his arm and he could feel the press of her mind even if their skin did not directly come into contact. Her emotions were very strong and very close to the surface—he glanced at her from the corner of his eye and found she was studying his face. Once he had taken comfort in her knowledge of him. Now he felt uncomfortable with her closeness. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I am uncertain as to what you are referring,” Spock stated.

Nyota—he had called her that once, affectionately—frowned at him. “You know what I’m talking about.”

He looked down, let his head fall and then drew in a breath. Spock had been, prior to her entrance, thinking of his mother. That, should she have survived, he might have wanted to see her. As a human she might have offered him some suggestion as to what he could have said differently. It was not his intention to cause the doctor unhappiness. He had, in some ways, enjoyed the challenge of resisting his advances. “I do not believe there is anything of which to speak.” His mother would have smiled at him, perhaps she would have stroked his cheek and he would have felt her knowledge, private knowledge, of his deeper feelings. 

Love, he remembered his mother’s love most of all. How fragile she seemed but how strong her love was for him, for his father and how strange it had been that he could not reciprocate it in the manner she would have been most familiar with. He wished now that he had asked her then how she had found such love amongst Vulcans when so many humans seemed puzzled and affronted by their stoicism. He might have asked her if she, like Nyota had once been, were ever lonely when she was with his father.

“I think there is,” Uhura said. She stood at his side but no longer touched him. “You’re hard to love.”

Spock wasn’t sure what she meant to indicate with the statement.

Her smile was still pretty, still clever. “That’s how you remind him of a hedgehog; nobody wants to get close to you because of how you look and how you act. It’s just the way you were born; it’s who you are.”

“That is illogical,” Spock stated.

Uhura rolled her eyes, her hair swished as she turned and put her hand on her hip. “No,” she said sharply. He missed this about her, how she stood up to him without fear or hesitation. “It’s not illogical. What’s illogical is the fact that you won’t accept that Dr. McCoy is not primarily ruled by logic. Or that he obviously cares for you.”

“Perhaps I do not share your observation that he has any strong emotional attachment towards me,” Spock said back. “You were not personally privy to all of our various interactions and therefore could not form a sound theory as regards—”

“He’s not me, Spock,” she said. “He’s a hedgehog too. It’s logical.” 

“Of the many things Dr. McCoy might be, he is not a logical being.” And made no attempt to prove that he was as Spock’s other suitors had at one point or another. The practice of logic over emotion seemed to exasperate McCoy; he was ruled by the constant throb of his own emotions. Spock had learned to sense them through the space between them until he was certain that they were touching minds and yet they had yet to share even the most cursory of melds. 

Her hands were cool on his face, turning him to face her fully. Her thoughts were surprisingly soft, encouraging, and reminiscent of his mother’s in a way that tore at his defenses. “Forget logic, Spock. What do you feel?” There was such bittersweet hope in her as she smiled sadly. “What does _he_ feel? Are his feelings really so shallow?”

That Spock could not be sure of; the doctor had been painstakingly careful not to touch him when it could be avoided. 

Uhura let her fingers slip away from his face. “Don’t be afraid to follow your heart, Spock.” And he wanted to catch her touch as it left, to catch that lingering hope and how warm she felt to him. But she smiled again and excused herself to leave him in contemplation.

\--

And they were in a jail cell, in a society ruled like the Roman Empire only with televisions and badly constructed sets. He’d nearly been killed once by an oddly reluctant gladiator only to be saved by Spock and then shoved and prodded back into jail while Jim was taken off somewhere else.

Bones leaned back against the wall and watched Spock fight with the bars. He thought a lot about how they were going to get out of here. He thought a lot about how they had gotten here. He thought a little about how well he was doing pretending that whatever might have been between him and Spock was over. That he was okay with it, he had given it his best try and that wasn’t too shabby even if it weren’t exactly James T. Kirk worthy. He sighed, pushed himself up to stop Spock from dislocating his own wrists trying to bend the bars that were (unbelievably) not even willing to move for his superior Vulcan strength.

“Angry, Spock? Or frustrated perhaps?”

Spock looked at him just long enough to indicate that he had been heard. “I am testing the strength of the door, doctor.”

Right, Bones leaned against the bars next to where Spock was feeling his way up the wall testing for weak points. “For the fifteenth time?” Spock spared him a glance that informed him that he was nothing more than a petty, vengeful little human who should have been focused on the Captain rather than attempting to humanize a Vulcan. “Look,” he said. It was the first time they were alone since he’d sent Spock out of his quarters. “I know we’ve had our disagreements… I know that recently they’ve been—”

“Doctor,” Spock said as he straightened up fully. “I am attempting to determine a means to escape. If you would please be brief—”

“Damn it, you pointy eared hobgoblin, I’m trying to—” What? Tell him what? There were no hard feelings, it was fun while it lasted, the man seriously needed to learn how to accept thoughtful gifts and could stand to get an injection of humor? “Thank you,” was he? “For saving my life!”

“Ah,” Spock said shortly. His eyebrow twitched. “I am aware you humans have the emotional need to express gratitude. You’re welcome, I believe, is the traditional response.” He stepped past Bones toward the opposite wall. Unaffected, of course, because Vulcans were ruled by logic and Spock might have been going on about that very subject right about then. 

Didn’t matter when the bastard could dismiss him so easily as being another stupid human, when he could—Bones grabbed him by the shoulder, must have surprised him, hadn’t touched him in months because Vulcans were picky about touch but he grabbed him now, dug his thumb into his shoulder and pushed until Spock hit the little corner of the wall. “I know why you're not afraid to die, Spock, you're more afraid of living.” Of feeling anything, of being human even for the fraction of a second and admitting that beneath that careful look of stoicism that he was half human and even if he weren’t Vulcans _felt_ things. Bones hadn’t spent weeks courting someone that didn’t give a damn about him. It had been something else, something that scared Spock and that was why it had to end. “Every day you’re alive is just another day you might slip and let your human half peek out. You wouldn't know what to do with a genuine warm decent feeling.” Like love, but he could crush it thoughtlessly just so he didn’t have to think about it anymore.

Spock was silent, his hand slipped off the bars he had been holding onto as he looked down at Bones’ hand on his shoulder and then back up at his face. His eyebrow—his infuriating eyebrow arched up again. “Really, Doctor?” 

Bones let his hand fall away and stepped back. Spock caught him by the hand, seemed surprised by the contact as Bones was: bare fingers to bare fingers, the grip was too rough, too tight. He held still (held his damn breath like some school girl) as Spock turned his hand, pressed their palms flush together and spread his fingers to allow Bones the room to weave his through.

“Spock,” he said. Because—

“Doctor,” Spock said. “I find your habitual overuse of words to be illogical and wasteful.” He rubbed his thumb up the side of Bones’ first finger like the soft caress of a tongue. 

Trust a Vulcan to take thirteen words to tell _him_ to shut up. McCoy moved forward, hand pressing closer and Spock was flat against the wall again, breathing a little heavier as he looked up from where their fingers were rubbing to Bones’ face. He caught Spock’s free hand in his, pulled it up and kissed the back of his fingers where they curled—heard his breath stutter and smiled. 

If he’d known all it took was a kiss on the hand…

“You two!” one of the guards shouted. “Separate now!”

Right. Spock pulled his hand back and tugged at his shirt, Bones went back to where he’d started to wait.

\--

Jim had been more obnoxious than normal as he smiled at him across his own quarters and waited for what Spock supposed could be referred to as _juicy details_. There had been no concealing the difference in Dr. McCoy’s demeanor upon their return to the ship and therefore no chance to avoid the Captain’s well meaning interference.

“I do not wish to discuss the matter with you,” Spock explained to him civilly.

Jim’s smile had become only more pronounced as he nodded. “Good,” seemed to be ignorant of the fact that the man had been denied. Jim had stepped forward to smack both his hands on either of Spock’s shoulders. “Now, if you hurt Bones again I’ll have to find a way to kill you.” A another pat on his arm and Jim was satisfied to have fulfilled his duty as a friend and left. Spock had not wasted time sorting out the empty threat; rather he had straightened his clothes and gone to the doctor’s quarters immediately. 

McCoy appeared to be nervous. Spock stepped inside his quarters for the second time in as many weeks and waited for the doors to shut fully behind them. He paused while the doctor fidgeted. “It is customary among Vulcans to engage in mind melds with prospective partners, as mental compatibility holds great significance to us.”

“That’s much nicer than your last proposition,” McCoy said. He looked over his shoulder, perhaps for somewhere to seat himself, and then back at him.

“I have your permission?” Spock asked.

“Yeah,” McCoy said. “Sure.” But he stepped back when Spock stepped forward until his back was against the wall and he was nearly cross eyed trying to follow Spock’s fingertips. His mind was—hot, summer hot where he had grown up in the thick damp heat, everything was brilliant green, rich red and brown—the colors of the Earth, and he worked his way deeper, down farther until he was in a cool, clear pool of water watching McCoy kicking his feet in the water with his pants rolled up to his knees. Everything was peaceful here, secreted away, there were birds in the distances, there were memories behind the shade of the trees but for now, for him, this place was quiet.

“You know,” the doctor said as Spock lifted himself up out of the water and onto the rocks. “In the beginning, I really did just want the sex.”

Spock rested his hand over the back of McCoy’s. 

“We compatible?” he asked. 

Here, where he could not hide his emotions and he did not fight them. Spock smiled. “We are both hedgehogs, it seems.” 

\--

Bones came back into the full sensation of his own body all at once. Found his arms over Spock’s shoulders, up on the balls of his feet for those few precious inches while he ran his fingers through thick black hair and pressed their mouths together hard enough their mouths were tingling. Spock’s hands were hot, under his clothes, on his skin and everything tingled with the lingering sense of duality. He was himself, he was Spock, they were all one big mesh. He couldn’t tell where his thoughts ended and Spock’s started, knew that this was—

Knew that Spock had wanted it the last time, hadn’t wanted Bones to agree to it, and wanted it now, wanted less clothes. Bones wanted less clothes. Didn’t want to need oxygen, wanted to keep this kiss, wanted to find Spock’s hands, to touch him how he needed to be touched—couldn’t think—settled for sucking in a wet breath all at once and back into the kiss. 

His pants felt loose, Spock’s hands were on his hips, sliding lower, over his shorts and cupping around his ass, pulling them together. Everything was hot, he was sweating where they touched, stumbling when Spock turned, found himself being carried and damn well wanted to tell Spock he wasn’t some damn girl. 

“I am aware, doctor,” Spock panted into his ear as he lowered him onto the bed, crawling after him.

“Leonard,” Bones corrected. Shirts had to go; he pulled at the bottom hem of Spock’s shirt, yanked and tugged until he got help and then it was gone, all that pale skin stretched over lean muscle. Heavy and hard, he ran his hands down it, licked his lips and raised his own arms when Spock pulled his shirt off. 

“Leonard,” Spock agreed and kissed him again, caught his hands and pinned them to the bed, caressing him with his fingers and his tongue. Bones shoved his heels against the bed and rocked up, pushed them until they were over and rocked their hips together, rubbed their palms together, felt Spock’s breath quickening, felt his skin tingling, felt him because they were touching, and because they were still half caught in some imaginary joint mind space.

Pants had to go, had to go now, he straightened, pulled his hands free, mouths so close still. “Get your pants off.” He climbed off the bed, pushed his pants down, kicked them off, and checked the shelves for the lube that had been sitting there lonely and hopeful for months. Spock was arching his hips up to push his uniform pants down, pushing them down in one fluid movement and dropping them to the side. Bones came back, caught his leg at the ankle and smoothed his palm up his calve, over his knee, dipping down the inside of his thigh where the skin was smooth and hot and up as he crawled back onto the bed, moved as Spock pulled himself to the center. His hand down on the bed over Spock’s shoulder, settling between his spread legs. “Really?” he said.

“If you would prefer our positions be reversed?”

No, yes—didn’t matter. Kissing again mattered, finding how their bodies fit together matter, how hard to press, how to rock his hips in a slow grind against burning hot skin, letting his fingertips work to find the rapid flutter of Spock’s heartbeat and how if he scraped his teeth down Spock’s throat he’d gasp like that. Beautiful sound—that was. Green flush where he was used to pink, and the constant aimless touch as Spock memorized his body through his fingertips. 

Everything was strange; he’d never taken so much time with a man before, never coaxed soft sounds from them, never bothered with fingers and kisses, never lingered over the smell and taste of rarely seen skin.

“Leonard,” Spock breathed when Bones sank into his body for the first time. Neck bared, eyes shut, mouth open as his tongue licked at his dry lips and his legs were tight against Bones’ sides like holding him still, right there. Leaning over, pressing their mouths together again, panting kiss, messy kiss, found his way to the soft skin below Spock’s ear, tasting the tang of his sweat. Could move now so he did, learning how, learning how hard, how soft, how deep, how slow, how fast—learning Spock for the first time, trying to remember in the rising storm things that he would want to know for the next time.

Echoed wants pressed at his skin, could have been thoughts, and could have been intuition. He found Spock’s hands, squeezed them, leaning his weight onto them, pressing almost too hard, moving with thrusts of his hips until Spock was trembling, demanding more with the undulation of his voice in wordless noises that made Bones’ head spin.

Steady hand against his face as their minds slid together as fluidly as their bodies, without violence, and everything all at once was brilliant in ecstasy.

Spock kept him close, kept him over him and against him, and used his hands to bring himself down, stroking Bones’ back in lazy sweeps, up into his hair, down the back of his arms. 

Bones propped himself up on his elbows and kissed Spock. “Damn.”

“Indeed.”

\--

_Sometimes, it just doesn’t work out_. Years after Spock had first become familiar with the phrase, it at last, made some rudimentary sort of sense. His first assumption that it was a hollow reassurance designed to comfort while avoiding the assignment of blame, instead he found that it was—in fact—a quiet truth. 

“Sometimes,” Leonard said as they waited for the shuttle that would take Spock to New Vulcan. He did not echo the regret with which Nyota had said it. His anger hurt, abrasive as hard spines twisting in Spock’s overly sensitive skin. “It just doesn’t work out.” Beyond the anger, Leonard meant the words. In his heart where it didn’t matter if Spock were with him or a Vulcan woman so long as he was _alive_ to be with anyone, Leonard meant these words. “We’ll be friends.”

Yes, friends. The sort of friend you could be to a man who had intimate knowledge of your mind and body, the sort that you had once woken up next to every morning, that you sat next to in quiet moments and did not have to explain with words or gestures or grand displays of emotion that you were thankful for them.

“You need to go,” Leonard said. His pain was unbearable and out of reach—beyond Spock’s touch but so full in his voice. “Go on—go—get married, hump your Vulcan brains out…”

Yes, his father had chosen a mate for him in anticipation of this moment—a second woman after the unfortunate passing of his first intended mate. She was waiting to receive him even now. It would stabilize the debilitating effects of Pon Farr that were tearing through his body and mind. It was not safe for him to make decisions now, it wasn’t logical. Leonard understood of course.

Nyota had once understood that she could not be what he needed as equally as he could not be what she needed. When she had used those words: _sometimes, it just doesn’t work_ she had meant them because they had tried and could not complete each other.

Leonard used them now because they could not overcome biology, because he could not be a Vulcan, because Spock had explained that this had to be. And if it were, they could no longer be and he would have lost the quiet places and the comfort of a mind so similar and different to his own. 

They had not tried. Not how it mattered, it had come too fast, he could not trust himself, did not trust himself now. Jim was here, meant to keep them apart, to be the logic that neither himself nor Leonard were capable of being now. 

“You,” Spock started to say.

“Damn it,” Leonard was shouting. Spock caught him, his hands as Leonard tried to point him away again. His mind was chaos, pain and rage and hate and love that was blinding and burning. Shouting at him to go now and not to be so damn foolish. Didn’t he know? Didn’t he know that this was Spock’s only chance to mate, to have kids, to be the Vulcan he wanted to be? Didn’t he know that humans were frail and weak and died and the time they had left was nothing compared to the time he could share with a Vulcan, didn’t he know that Leonard was trying—trying—to be what he had to be, to make sure Spock got this chance and damn it, he didn’t want to give, he didn’t want to lose, he didn’t want anything but to—

“My mind to yours,” Spock managed to gasp.

“Idiot,” Leonard cursed at him. “Stupid, _illogical_ Vulcan!” But he gave himself anyway, right there without ceremony, without ritual, in the noisy docking bay on the Enterprise and they were complete. One.

Jim’s voice seemed distant, beyond the rush of thoughts and the pound of his heartbeat. “About damn time.”


End file.
